


Something Beautiful Is Going to Happen

by Marina_15



Category: Disco Elysium (Video Game)
Genre: Addiction recovery, Additional content warnings included before chapters, Art Harry, Bisexual Harry Du Bois, Canon typical references to drugs and alcohol, Canon-Noncompliant Kineema, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-noncompliant references to pinball and Kim's eyesight, Communist Harry, First Kiss, Hopefully everything else is good, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Post-Canon, Smoking, Some angst but with a happy ending, Strong Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 15:54:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28656069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marina_15/pseuds/Marina_15
Summary: The word “home” means nothing to you. You try to imagine what your apartment looks like. Empty bottles and upset trash cans? Wallpaper made out of porn magazines? Your very own disco ball? The keys you found in your suitcase are a nondescript silver and tell you nothing about the rooms they unlock.Through the window, you catch a glimpse of your blood-red graffito: SOMETHING BEAUTIFUL IS GOING TO HAPPEN.
Relationships: Harry Du Bois/Kim Kitsuragi
Comments: 25
Kudos: 97





	1. Chapter 1

The sky is dark by the time the five of them head back to the Whirling-in-Rags from the docks. It is a clear night; Kim can see a smattering of stars blinking through the usual smog. They walk in a tense silence that no one seems eager to break, even Harry with his dozens of voices.

They’re lingering by the doorway to the hotel when Jean Vicquemare finally speaks. “I suppose you’ll be wanting a ride back home.” He addresses this to Harry. _Seeing as you crashed your MC_ is left unspoken.

Harry blinks, as if he has forgotten he has ever lived anywhere other than Martinaise. “Thanks,” he says, “but if it’s all the same to you, I’ll head back with Kim in the morning. We have lots of notes to finish up. Loose ends to tie up. Other things to, er, ‘up.’ If it’s okay with you.” He turns to Kim.

“Of course, Detective,” Kim says.

Vicquemare looks surprised, offended, maybe even jealous. However, he simply turns to Minot and Heidelstam and shrugs. “You ready to go home?”

Judit sighs. “Yes, please.”

After short goodbyes, Kim and Harry enter the Whirling. Harry surveys the cafeteria blankly for a few moments. The disco ball casts ghoulish shadows on his face. He is clutching the instant photo of himself with the Insulindian Phasmid, swaying on his feet in what Kim suspects is delayed shock and exhaustion. When Harry doesn’t immediately run to the counter to show Garte the photo, Kim gestures toward the stairs. “We don’t have to finish any paperwork tonight,” he says gently. “There’s always the morning.”

Harry nods in relief. “Works for me.”

It was never really about the paperwork, Kim thinks. Harry just didn’t want to spend any more time with Jean, Trant, and Judit, not without Kim to back him up in case things got nasty. For a moment, Kim wonders what Harry will do without him at the 41st, then remembers he agreed to transfer there himself. Did that really happen? The entire evening feels like the hazy memories of a dream after waking up.

They nod to Garte and make the slow voyage upstairs, Harry leaning heavily on his uninjured leg. By the time they reach the second floor, his forehead is covered in sweat.

“I should probably check on your injury before we turn in for the night,” Kim says as Harry approaches the door to his room.

“I’m sure it’s fine. I’m a superstar cop, remember?” There’s no luster to Harry’s words. His hair is matted to the back of his neck.

Kim arches an eyebrow and Harry relents, unlocking and pushing open the door. “After you.”

Kim gestures for Harry to sit down on the bed, which he does with a wince.

“You’ll need to pull down your trousers a bit,” Kim says.

Harry flushes in embarrassment, at odds with his tendency to strip in public to try on whatever garment he can find in the trash. He yanks down his trousers without meeting Kim’s eyes.

“I’ve been washing my clothes in the sink,” he mutters.

“Er…”

“What I mean is, it’s the same underwear from before, but it’s clean.”

Kim succeeds in holding back laughter. “Understood.”

Kim kneels down to unwrap the bandages and look at the bullet wound. Running around all day has done Harry no favors; the area looks painful and inflamed.

“Does it hurt?” Kim asks. “Do you need anything?”

Harry’s eyes glaze over in that way they do when he’s conversing within himself. Kim waits patiently for Harry to return, examining a purple bruise on his forearm. Where did that come from?

“It hurts,” Harry says at last, leaning back. “But I don’t think I want any pain meds. Not, er, not yet. I don’t want to…” He swallows. “I don’t think it’s a good idea if I want to make _this_ work.”

 _This_ meaning sobriety. Kim nods. “We’ll still need to continue with the antibiotics, and I’m going to apply some more antibacterial ointment tonight.” He takes a steadying breath. “I also wanted to talk to you about the process of getting sober.” He immediately regrets bringing it up now, while Harry is hurting, exhausted, and half-naked.

A muscle clenches in Harry’s jaw. “I’ll be honest with you, Kim. I never drank on the job this week, but I haven’t quit cold turkey, either. The first two nights, I…”

Kim quickly shakes his head. “It’s fine, Harry. I spoke to the 41st’s medic about this over the radio.”

“You did?”

“It can actually be dangerous for your organs to quit ‘cold turkey,’ as you said. But there are things we can do to mitigate your withdrawal symptoms as you slowly taper off. For starters, he’s prescribing you an anti-anxiety medication you can pick up tomorrow.”

Harry arches an eyebrow. Unlike Kim, it makes him look uncertain rather than authoritative. “So, what’s the difference between that and, you know, the ‘bad’ kind of drug?”

“Well, for a start, they’re regulated. They therefore aren’t as likely to kill you.”

Harry’s eyes start to wander off again, so Kim adds, “There’s something else the doctor mentioned. It’s a new kind of treatment, but I wanted to see what you thought.”

Harry manages a sick looking grin. “Something experimental?”

Kim ignores the suggestive tone. “He called it a ‘patch.’ It’s an adhesive bandage you wear that puts a regulated amount of chemicals into your body each day. The chemicals mimic the effects of alcohol without the risks of overdosing. Is that something you would be interested in?”

Harry is quiet for a long time. Kim, still kneeling beside the bed, clears his throat.

“Yeah, I think so,” Harry says finally, scratching his cheek where his facial hair used to be. “I wonder if I ever tried any of this before.”

“I don’t know. Judging by what the lazareth said, you haven’t, but I can’t be sure. He also recommended that you come in for a full health screening.” Kim reaches into his bag for the antibacterial ointment and clean bandages.

Harry stares up at the ceiling while Kim cleans and redresses the wound. “Kim? Do you think Jean and Judit hate me?”

Kim frowns and focuses on the work his hands are doing before responding. “Officers Vicquemare and Minot have had a long and taxing week, as have we. I don’t think they hate you. Remember how they both jumped to your defense when we called the station?”

“Jean also called me a fuckup,” Harry says casually, but there’s a brittleness to his voice.

Kim finishes dressing the wound and leans back on his heels. “I think he needs some time to accept that you don’t remember him. It sounds like you were close before. What is it you said Officer McLaine called you? ‘Heterosexual life partners?’” He smiles.

“Yeah, maybe.” Harry doesn’t return the smile. “I don’t know if that first part is true. What do you think?”

Kim blinks. “Are you asking me if I think Officer Vicquemare is homosexual? Detective, just because _I_ am doesn’t mean that I can identify—”

“What? No,” Harry interrupts. “Not Jean. Me.”

Kim stares for a moment. He knows that Harry has continued working on some sort of “mind project” related to sexuality, despite his claims that he would stop obsessing. Kim should have expected this question. “I’m not sure I can answer that for you.”

Harry eyes dart between Kim and the ceiling. “Do you think someone can be _part_ homosexual? Liking women, and men, and others?”

“I believe the term for that is bisexual.”

Harry sits up excitedly. “There’s a word for it? Bisexual,” he tries it out. “Bisexual, bisexual, bisexual.” Each time, he says it with a different intonation, as if each of his voices needs a turn. “Thank you, Kim. This is great.”

Kim snorts and stands up. “All right, Detective, I’m done. You can get dressed.”

Harry scrambles to make himself decent, or as decent as Harry can be.

Kim prepares to leave but finds himself lingering by the door. It feels wrong to end such a momentous day without saying something… momentous.

“Detective. Harry. I just wanted to tell you how fortunate I am to have had you as a partner this week. A lot of things that could have gone wrong didn’t, and I have you to thank for that. I hope whatever the future holds for us at the 41st is just as fulfilling.”

Harry looks gobsmacked, as if someone has hit him. The reaction makes Kim’s lungs feel like ice.

Kim coughs and clasps his hands behind his back. “Well. Goodnight. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Wait!” Harry shouts. He winces. “Sorry. I just realized that I’m _starving_.”

It’s such a Harry-like non-sequitur that it takes Kim a moment to realize that neither of them has eaten since the morning, and that he is also starving.

“Should I ask Garte if they can bring us up anything?”

“Yes! Wait, no. Not if it’s spiked borscht.” Harry’s nose wrinkles. “A week ago, I would have been like, ‘Party on!’ But the thing is, I actually hate borscht, and I’m trying really fucking hard to hate alcohol, too.”

They decide to send Kim downstairs to scrounge up a meal. It’s earlier than he realized, barely 21:00, and there are still a few hotel guests downstairs.

Kim returns with a warm paper box and sets it down on the table in Harry’s room. “I know you said you hate borscht, but I forgot to ask you what you _do_ like.”

“I’m not sure. I could have been a vegetarian for all I know.”

“I somehow doubt that. Anyway, I got us some pirozhki. They’re like little pies. I got two filled with meat and two with jam. I hope you like them. Do you want me to stay here to eat, or should I—”

“Please stay,” Harry says. “Thanks, Kim.”

They tear into their food with what might be an embarrassing fervor if they weren’t both so hungry. Afterward, Harry eyes Kim sleepily from his chair.

“Are you really going to come work with me?” he asks.

“It would be my privilege.”

Harry wipes his hands on his pants. “All day today, I was thinking about quitting again. Not anymore, though. Not if you’ll be there.”

Kim keeps his expression neutral. “Why were you considering it?” He thinks he might already know, judging by Harry’s reaction when he learned his kill count.

Harry stares at the wall. “It’s hard… doing this. That dream I had today, that nightmare…” He trails off. Kim’s not sure if he’s consulting the voices or if he just has nothing more to say.

“You’re an excellent detective.” Kim smiles. “Surprisingly so. But there’s no shame in deciding you would rather do something else.”

Harry shakes his head. “If _you’re_ there, I feel like I might have a chance at not fucking it up. I mean, I might fuck up anyway. Not that it would be your fault. I guess my point is, I don’t like the person I was before, but with you helping me, I’ve been kind of okay with the person I’ve been this week. Sort of. Sometimes. After the whole smashing the pinball machine thing.”

Kim shrugs. “It deserved to die.”

Harry’s eyes widen and he laughs. Kim has never heard him truly laugh before and it’s delightful, deep and booming. It’s different from Harry’s awkward chuckles when he’s interviewing witnesses or his breathy scoffs when he’s being self-deprecating (which is often).

“You’re right,” Harry exclaims. “Fuck that pinball machine.”

“We should have hung _it_ from the tree,” Kim offers, trying to get Harry to laugh again.

Harry does.

“You’ve got a dark side, Kim. I like it.” Harry wipes tears from his eyes.

Kim smothers a smile. “I don’t know what you mean, Detective.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1/21/21: I revised this chapter so poor Trant is actually there this time.
> 
> Also- as a bi person, I realize it's not being "part gay and part straight," like Harry implies, but I imagine he's new to this and still figuring things out.


	2. Chapter 2

You wake up with your mouth tasting like blackberry jam. Weird, but you’ve tasted worse. You feel nauseated and your head pounds, but that’s probably less the fault of the pirozhki than the fact you haven’t had a drink in days.

Last night, Kim said that it was actually _bad_ if you stopped drinking completely. It must be true because Kim’s pretty smart, but it also _maybe_ feels like Kim wants to party with you and this is just his cover story.

_Don’t be an idiot. He doesn’t want to party with you. Or probably see your face ever, ever again._

Then why—

_EVER again._

Then why did he transfer to the 41st?

_Because he respects you._

_Or, consider: Maybe you make him feel like a great cop in comparison._

But Kim already is a great cop.

_He is pretty great. Hey, why did you volunteer to stay here and do paperwork, anyway? That’s not really your thing._

It could be my thing. I could be paperwork cop.

_That’s just another way to say boring cop._

_Doing paperwork is a great way to think about things other than drinking._

_Do you even remember how to hold a pencil?_

Your thoughts are mercifully interrupted when Kim knocks on the door. He lets himself in, balancing his clipboard, two mugs of coffee, and croissants. “Good morning. Ready to do some writing?”

“What if I don’t remember how to hold a pencil?”

Kim’s mouth twitches in a smile. He sets the coffees and croissants on the table and takes a seat. “You’re not getting out of it that easily, Detective.”

_He thinks you were joking. Let him think that!_

_No, you should be honest about your very real fears of using writing utensils._

I managed to forge those signatures all right, didn’t I?

 _Cursive isn’t_ real _writing. It’s just loopy loops._

You sit down across from Kim and pick up what turns out to be a pen, not a pencil. You jot down your name in the margins of your notebook. Maybe a little shaky, but not so bad. You look up to see that Kim is already hard at work, head bent toward the table. His handwriting is small and precise.

You take a sip of the coffee. It may be the best thing you’ve ever tasted. Then again, you’ve thought that about a lot of things recently.

_Your taste buds may be recovering from the drinking, so everything tastes better._

From across the table, Kim slides his glasses to the top of his head and peers intently at his clipboard.

_You’ve never noticed how long his eyelashes are. Aren’t they nice?_

_Kim must have myopia, which refers to the condition of being able to see clearly from a short distance, but not from far away._

_You would look_ so _good in glasses like that._

You’ve run out of distractions for now, so you try to start writing up your report. “THE HANGED MAN,” you scrawl in huge letters. “A CASE BY HARRY DU BOIS.” You cross that out. “A CASE BY HARRIER DU BOIS AND KIM KITSURAGI (DETECTIVES).”

Writing the report is slow going at the beginning, clearly, but once the caffeine hits your bloodstream, the words start to spill out of you. It’s cathartic to finally put the craziness of this week onto paper, to try to prove to someone that it all actually happened. You do not notice an hour later that your hand is cramping up, or that you’ve filled up five whole pages and a good portion of a sixth, or that your stomach is growling noisily.

“Harry… Harry.”

You blink rapidly and realize Kim has been saying your name for a good minute.

“That’s probably enough for now, don’t you think?”

_But everyone needs to know how cool you two were! And about the karaoke! And the dance party in the church!_

_It also wouldn’t hurt to describe all your outfits, in detail._

_Don’t forget about your_ bisexual _awakening._

“I got a little carried away,” you say.

“I can see that.” Kim stands up and stretches. “Between both our reports, I think we’ve probably touched on everything important. How would you feel about heading home?”

“I…” You stop. The word “home” means nothing to you. You try to imagine what your apartment looks like. Empty bottles and upset trash cans? Wallpaper made out of porn magazines? Your very own disco ball? The keys you found in your suitcase are a nondescript silver and tell you nothing about the rooms they unlock.

“I don’t know where I live,” you admit.

_Ask Kim if you can live with him instead._

_No, if your apartment is that bad, just burn it down and collect the insurance money._

_You? With insurance? Is that some kind of joke?_

_Maybe you’re secretly rich and live in a mansion and no one is telling you because they’re jealous._

Kim stacks his papers. “Mm. I figured that might be the case, so I made sure to get your address when I called the precinct. We’ll probably have to spend some time cleaning your apartment today.”

“You want to help me clean?” You gape at Kim. Then again, if he can handle the body in the tree without vomiting, maybe he can handle whatever hovel you came from.

Kim crosses his arms. “I’m hardly going to let a recovering addict return to a house full of alcohol and drugs.”

You can’t really argue with that, so you start packing your things. Through the window, you catch a glimpse of your blood-red graffito: _SOMETHING BEAUTIFUL IS GOING TO HAPPEN._

“Hey Kim, should I bring this mesh tank top or do you think I already have one at home?”

\---

“Holy fuck!” you shout, gripping the side of your seat in terror.

Kim has just narrowly prevented the Kineema from getting side-swiped by a lorry. The lorry driver shouts something obscene at you from his window as he flies by. It all happens so fast, you’re not even sure whose fault it was.

You look over at Kim in time to see him smirk. “You can relax, Harry. I wouldn’t let us get hit.”

“Okay.” Your voice is two octaves higher than usual.

_He speaks the truth, my lord. He treasures this motor carriage far too much to put it in danger._

_Look at him. He_ enjoyed _almost giving you another heart attack. If he’s anything in bed like he is in the MC, then ‘holy fuck’ indeed._

Where the fuck did _that_ thought come from?

_Oh, please, Harry._

You turn your head away from Kim to look out the window. Aside from the crowds, this part of Revachol doesn’t look too different from Martinaise. A little _nicer_ , maybe, but still not _nice_. A few shops and diners are scattered among the clusters of blocky apartment buildings. You spot a park with trash and brambles accumulating around its borders.

Kim pulls into the parking lot of one of the blocky buildings and stops the Kineema.

“So… This is it?” you ask.

“This is it.”

You gaze upward through the window. Rows and rows of faded red doors stare back. You wait to see if there is any hint of recognition. Nothing. You might as well be at a stranger’s home.

You retrieve your keys from your pocket with sweaty hands. “Which, er, which floor?”

Kim glances at his notebook. “Lucky for your leg, the first. Number seven.”

Your legs are shaking as you exit the motor carriage. You glance behind you and Kim smiles reassuringly. You try to wipe your hands on your coat and end up jabbing yourself in the palm with a key.

The doors of the apartments seem too close together, as if the apartments are closet sized.

_Closet sized, or coffin sized? This could have been your coffin, many times._

Aside from the chipped number placard on it, your door looks identical to those around it. You approach, legs still shaking. Your throat feels like you’ve been gargling sand. Your lungs hurt—maybe in addition to gargling sand, you’ve been inhaling it, too. Your eyes sting. Your head aches. Your heart is beating too fast. You can’t breathe. You—

“Detective? Are you all right?”

Kim places a hand on your shoulder. It feels solid.

“Take a deep breath, Harry.”

_Can’t he see you’re dying?_

“Harry. Breathe.”

You inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

Okay, so maybe you’re not dying. But you’re sure as hell not having a good time.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” you say.

“I know you can.” Kim raises his eyebrows. “Just pretend it’s that bunker from Martinaise.”

You snort because the thought of that stupid bunker actually gives you enough courage to unlock and open the door.

A rectangle of light falls upon a carpeted floor. Your first thought upon seeing your apartment is “small.” The second is “sad.” It’s a studio apartment and it only takes a moment to take it all in: a double bed with no sheets, a record player, a card table with one chair, a dirty couch, an overflowing trash can, and a pile of cardboard boxes stuffed with papers and various junk. The kitchen is little more than a refrigerator and oven, the meager countertops crowded with bottles both empty and full. The only other door leads into a dingy bathroom. The smell of alcohol is thick in the air. Underneath it, the scent of mildew and what might be food in the refrigerator past its prime.

You take a step inside and your shoe squelches. You peer down and see you’ve stepped into a puddle of… into a puddle. You also notice something that escaped your attention at first, a thin white envelope someone has slid under the door. You pick it up. Inside is a handwritten note from Mathieu. Who is Mathieu?

_He’s your landlord, dumbass._

_Or perhaps… a secret lover?_

No, definitely your landlord. The letter requests the immediate payment of 66 reál for last month’s rent. You flip the envelope over. It’s dated three weeks ago.

_Maybe you didn’t know what money was even before the whole amnesia thing?_

From outside the door, Kim claps his hands together. “All right. We’ll go pick up some cleaning supplies and get to work.”

You shove the letter in your pocket. “I don’t know if I can stay here, Kim.

Kim’s face is expressionless. “I worried that might be the case. I’m sure it’s difficult to be surrounded by bad memories. Or the idea of bad memories, in your case.”

You scratch your head. “No, I mean, I think they’re trying to evict me. But yeah, also the bad memories.”

For a moment, Kim stares at you intently, as if trying to come to a decision. It makes your skin itch. He suddenly nods to himself. “I rent the third floor of a house owned by a very nice woman named Basha. She lives on the first floor, but the second has been empty for months. She’s getting a bit desperate for a tenant. It’s 100 reál a month, furnished, utilities included. I could put in a good word for you, if you’re interested. I’ve lived there for ten years. She trusts me.” He emphasizes the last three words.

 _He’s asking if he can trust_ you _with this. If you live there, are you going to trash the house like you trashed your hotel room? Like you trashed your apartment? Like you trashed your_ life _?_

_Incentive to not fuck things up: Kim might murder you if you do. No one would suspect him. It would be the perfect crime._

_If you live there and_ behave _, you and Kim could hang out all the time._

 _Respond politely. Let him know you can be serious_.

“That would be… That would be disco.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It turns out that Kim is actually farsighted, not nearsighted!


	3. Chapter 3

Kim worries he has made a mistake.

Against his better judgment, he likes Harry. He really likes Harry. But inviting him to rent the same house? They’ll see each other all day at work, then be right on top of each other at home. Kim is a private individual. He enjoys his space, even if it gets lonely sometimes. And Harry is needy, especially at this point in his recovery.

Despite all this, he asked Harry. That must count for something.

“That would be… That would be disco,” Harry says.

Kim clears his throat. “I’ll talk to Basha, then. But even if you’re moving, we still need to clean up your old apartment.”

Harry gazes over his shoulder at the grimy room. “We can’t just, you know, leave it?”

“Not unless you enjoy the idea of paying a fine on top of your late rent.”

Harry groans, running a hand through his graying hair.

“Come on. Let’s go to the store and get cleaning supplies. We can pick up your medications, too.”

Harry bites his lip. “Okay.”

“We’ll have it done by the end of the day. I promise.”

\---

After Kim has unloaded the cleaning supplies, poured all the alcohol down the drain, and thrown any suspicious looking bottles into a trash bag, he leaves Harry to start collecting tare and returns outside to use the payphone.

An older woman’s accented voice answers. “Hello?”

“Basha. It’s Kim.”

“Kim! Are you still on your case, _mój drogi_?”

Kim’s mouth quirks in a smile. “I just got back this morning. I actually wanted to ask you about the middle unit. Are you still looking for a tenant? My partner on the case is looking for a new place to live. His name’s Harry.”

“Yes, of course!” Basha says immediately. “When can he move in?”

“Anytime, really. We’re cleaning out his current apartment right now. But Basha, for the sake of full transparency, I need to let you know about Harry.” Kim turns so his back is to the apartment. It’s unlikely Harry can hear him from inside, but he lowers his voice. “He’s a recovering alcoholic. He's doing well, but it’s still the early days. I can take full responsibility for him, but I thought you would want to know. It’s okay if you aren’t comfortable with that.”

The line is silent for so long that Kim wonders if Basha has hung up.

“He can move in,” she finally says.

“Are you sure?”

Basha laughs, a gravelly sound. “This is perhaps a story better saved for later, but I was in a position similar to your Harry’s, many years ago.”

Kim’s mind conjures up the bizarre image of his elderly female landlord in Harry’s disco suit.

“If I had had a Kim Kitsuragi back then, I maybe would have gotten better sooner,” Basha continues. “But I think I will have to do weekly inspections. I can’t have the house destroyed.”

“Understood,” Kim says. “Thank you, Basha, for giving Harry a chance.”

Kim returns to the apartment to see Harry examining the medicated patch Kim applied to his forearm. A bulging trash bag full of empty bottles sits at his feet.

“Basha says you can move in.”

Harry’s face brightens. “Really?”

Kim nods. “On certain conditions. She wants to inspect your apartment every week to make sure it’s not, well…”

“Trashed?” Harry offers.

“Essentially. How's the patch?”

“Oh, that.” Harry rubs at it. “It feels kind of weird. Sort of like I’ve had a few drinks but sort of not.”

“It’s the strongest dose, so I can see how it might feel that way. We’ll slowly taper off over the next few weeks.”

Kim examines the apartment. Harry has cleared the surfaces of bottles, which is an encouraging sight, but in doing so, he has exposed the filthy kitchen counters. Kim reaches into the plastic bag from the store, then hands Harry a sponge and a canister of scouring powder.

“You get to work in the kitchen. I’ll start on the bathroom.”

Harry grimaces. “You sure you can handle that?”

“I’m sure. Just don’t lick any tables while I’m in there.”

\---

After scrubbing every surface in the apartment and hauling trash and old furniture to the dumpster, they load Harry’s boxes of old case files into the Kineema to sort through later. Harry’s suitcase, stuffed full of clothing and linens, follows, as does his record player.

Kim stands in the entryway, hands on his hips. “That’s everything except the carpet. But I think that might be a lost cause.” He turns to Harry. “Do you have enough money to pay the rent you owe?”

Harry nods. “I saved a lot by staying at the shack.”

They walk to the rental office. Inside, they come face-to-face with a man who looks eerily like Evart Claire, though Kim doesn’t think Claire’s brother’s name was Mathieu. Could there be three of them?

“Are you Mathieu?” Harry asks, holding up an envelope awkwardly.

“Am I— Of course I am!” The man’s face reddens. “What’s wrong with you, Du Bois? Are you drunk?”

“Not drunk. Well, a little patch-drunk. Mostly just amnesic.”

“I think,” Kim interrupts, “that what Lieutenant Du Bois is trying to say is that he’s here to pay the money he owes and complete the move-out process.”

Mathieu scoffs. “Oh, is he, now? Good fucking riddance.” He rummages in a filing cabinet for a manila envelope and peers inside. “You owe me 132 reál for last month and this month, plus fifty more for damages.”

Harry makes a small noise of protest.

“With respect, sir, the apartment has been thoroughly cleaned,” Kim says. “I think Harry is at least owed an inspection before he’s charged for damages.”

Mathieu glowers at them. “Fine, just give me the keys, pay me the 132, and go. I’m tired of looking at your faces. But don’t forget, Du Bois, I know where you work.”

Harry grins as they return to the Kineema. “That was smooth, Kim. Did you see his face?”

Kim can’t help but smile back. “I couldn’t let him scam you, not after we spent the whole day cleaning.”

“Hmm. Well, thanks.” Harry looks up at the sky. “It’s getting late. We forgot to eat all day again.”

“We can’t let that become a habit.” Kim slides into the driver’s seat. Harry plops down beside him. “Do you like tacos?”

Harry shrugs. “I have no idea what tacos are.”

\---

On their way home (and doesn’t that idea send a strange shiver down Kim’s spine?), they stop at a street food cart. Kim orders for Harry and they sit on the curb of the street to eat. The air is chill and the sidewalks uncrowded.

“Verdict?” Kim asks after Harry has wolfed down his second taco.

Harry nods vigorously. “It turns out that I _do_ like tacos.”

Kim leans his head on his fist. “It’s interesting, the things you remember and the things you don’t. I’m sure there are graduate students who could write a thesis on you.”

Harry’s eyes meet his. “I couldn’t tell you the reason behind any of it. I forgot about the concept of money, but the first time I heard your Kineema, I knew exactly what it was.”

“Really?”

Harry nods, wrapping his jacket tighter around him. “Ready to go?”

It’s not just the cold, Kim realizes. Harry doesn’t want to talk about this anymore. Odd. He has never been touchy about his amnesia before.

But Kim won’t press him. “Sure, let’s go. Hopefully Basha is still awake.”

A few minutes later, they’re idling in front of a three-story house in one of Revachol’s rare residential areas not choking with apartment buildings.

“The house is from before the war,” Harry comments.

“It is. How did you know that?”

“Well, it looks old. But it’s mostly the architecture that told me. Pitched roofs and gables, egg-and-dart moulding, sash windows. It’s tall and narrow. You don’t see that kind of building anymore. It’s all utilitarian now.”

Kim shakes his head. “Harry, you amaze me sometimes.” He gets out of the Kineema and stretches. “Are you coming?”

Harry is jolted out of his reverie and joins him in the street. They each take a box of Harry’s belongings and proceed up the cobblestone pathway to the house.

At the door, Kim shifts the box to his hip and produces a brass key from his pocket. They enter, the floorboards of the foyer creaking and groaning under their weight.

“This is the main staircase, obviously,” Kim says, nodding forward. He gestures to the door to their left. “And this is Basha’s apartment.”

As if summoned by her name, a white-haired woman in a fluffy green robe emerges from behind the door. “ _Mój drogi_ , you’re back! And this must be your Harry!”

Basha envelops Kim in a hug. Harry grins and makes a little _oof_ sound when Basha turns to hug him, too.

“I was so happy to hear that Kim made a friend in Martinaise,” she tells Harry. Kim feels his ears heat up. “He never has any guests, and now he’s brought me a tenant!”

“Thank you for letting me stay here,” Harry says. He turns to Kim and… was that a wink? “I’m glad Kim made a friend, too.”

“Come, let’s get you settled.” Basha hands Harry a set of keys and they make their way to the second floor.

Kim tries to hide his intrigue, but he has never stepped foot in the second-story apartment and is curious to see what it looks like. He finds that it is much the same as his own, full of Basha’s heavy old furniture and thick carpets laid over cold wooden floors.

Harry resembles a giant owl, his head darting in all directions to take in the living room and kitchen. “This is… really nice.” His voice is barely louder than a whisper.

“Rent is due on the first of each month,” Basha says, then yawns. “The laundry facilities are in the basement. I’m going to bed now. Kim, you help Harry unpack.”

They bid Basha goodnight and set the boxes on the ground. Harry faces away from Kim and holds the keys to his chest. He is quiet.

“Want to bring everything else upstairs?” Kim asks Harry’s back. Something is wrong, but he's not sure what.

“I don’t deserve this.” Harry says, shoulders hunching.

Kim crosses his arms. “I respectfully disagree, Detective.”

Harry turns toward Kim and cocks his head to the side, listening to something Kim can’t hear. Very slowly, he steps forward into Kim’s personal space. Kim is forced to crane his neck upward to make eye contact.

“Harry?”

Harry’s arms wrap around him in a tight hug. Kim’s heart beats frantically. His arms are still crossed, squished between their bodies.

“Thank you, Kim,” Harry mumbles over Kim’s shoulder.

Kim loosens his arms and tentatively rests them on Harry’s back. When was the last time anyone other than Basha has done this? He realizes that Harry is expecting him to say something.

“Of course, Harry.”

Kim can smell Harry’s sweat and deodorant, but doesn't really mind it. Before things can go any further—though, what does he think will happen?—Kim pulls away from the hug and clears his throat. Harry blinks at him, expression unreadable.

“Let’s unpack the rest of your things.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just some content warnings for this chapter: There are some references to a crime scene (nothing more gory than the game itself) and a brief reference to Harry's past suicidal thoughts.

_Harry_ , _baby,_ a voice growls from your subconscious. _You are aware, aren’t you, that you can still repeat past mistakes even if you don’t remember them?_

You awake with a grunt. It takes you a moment to recognize the room you’re in. You’ve lived here for five weeks, now, and it still feels strange, as if you’re a puzzle piece being forced into the wrong slot.

You roll over to check the clock. It’s 5:00. You groan and sit up, not seeing the point in trying to fall back asleep when you’ll need to be up in an hour, anyway. You pull a robe over your pajamas and trudge to the kitchen to make coffee, leg aching in protest although it’s long since healed. You hear the floor creak from upstairs. Kim must be awake.

_You should bring him coffee. Maybe he couldn’t sleep, either._

_Kim is always awake this early. He likes to have some time to himself before facing the day. You shouldn’t bother him._

Despite living and working in the same buildings, you haven’t seen Kim as much as you expected. Jean has allowed Kim to be your new partner after begrudgingly admitting how well you worked together on the hanged man case, but there have been no real capital-C Cases in C-Wing yet, or at least none that have been assigned to you. You may have seniority over almost everyone else, but there is an unspoken agreement that you’ll be taking it easy for a few weeks. More often than not, you and Kim have been splitting up to tackle reports of petty theft or property damage, crimes that simply do not require more than one officer. It’s more efficient that way, but it’s also a bit lonely.

It’s not like you never see Kim, though. At home, you have taken to smoking together in the evenings. You stick to one cigarette, partly to impress Kim with your willpower and partly because you don’t want to stand outside in the unseasonable cold any longer than necessary. Kim is also there to remind you to take your anti-anxiety medication and to help you apply your patches of steadily decreasing doses of pseudo-alcohol. Kim says that these are just small pieces of your overall recovery plan. The day you started back at work, he took the liberty of scheduling you an appointment with a therapist, but the waiting list is so long that you won’t be seeing them until next month. In the meantime, you’ve attended several sessions of a support group for people struggling with addiction. You don’t enjoy the meetings in the slightest—the coffee is terrible, and the unhappy faces remind you too much of your own—but you keep going for Kim’s sake.

You’re spooning coffee grounds into the filter when someone knocks on the door. Kim stands in the hallway holding two steaming mugs, looking slightly sheepish.

“I heard you moving around,” he explains. “Coffee?”

“Thanks.” You accept one of the mugs. “Do you want to come in?”

“Sure.”

You step aside to allow Kim to pass you.

_Oh my Innocence, he’s wearing pajamas._

He is. Long pants and a t-shirt, hardly more revealing than his usual outfit.

 _But you can see his_ arms.

Since when have I been into arms?

_Since right now._

Kim sits at your kitchen table and crosses one leg over the other. He’s wearing slippers, the kind that are sturdy enough to wear as regular shoes, though Kim would never do that. “Couldn’t sleep?”

“Hmm? Oh, yeah, guess not. So, you’re always awake this early?”

Kim pauses midway through blowing on his coffee. “I want to ask you how you know that, but I won’t.”

You sit down across from him and fall into a companionable silence, sipping your drinks. Orange and pink creep into the sky outside the window.

“Kim, tell me a secret about yourself.”

Kim doesn’t even bother trying to hide his smile. Your question has become a sort of running joke. You ask, almost daily, and Kim either refuses to answer or tells you something ridiculously obvious, like “I’m wearing an orange jacket” or “I live in the apartment above yours.”

“Not today,” he says.

“All right. I’ll tell you one, then.” You pretend to think deeply, which turns into actually thinking deeply.

_“Secrets” you can tell Kim:_

  1. _You’re a recovering alcoholic._
  2. _You did laundry yesterday and asked to borrow Kim’s soap since you ran out._
  3. _You don’t like borscht._
  4. _You like almost every other kind of food._
  5. _It took you six years to get over your ex, and that’s only after you realized you were probably the worst thing to ever happen to her._
  6. _You realized today that you have a thing for Kim’s arms._
  7. _You’ve suspected for a while that you might have a thing for Kim. The whole Kim, not just his arms._
  8. _When you met, Kim thought you were almost sixty and that you looked worse than the actual dead guy, so unless he has some questionable tastes, it is very unlikely he feels the same way._
  9. _Even if he does, see #5 on this list. Your track record when it comes to relationships is bad, bad, bad._



“I… I don’t like borscht,” you stammer, realizing that you’ve been silent for far too long.

Kim lifts an eyebrow. “That _is_ a secret. I’m floored.”

\---

You actually have a case today, a real capital-C Case. About the time you and Kim were enjoying your coffees this morning, the body of a middle-aged man was found at the park near your old apartment.

Kim drives you there in the Kineema he has been issued by the 41st. He never misses an opportunity to complain about its inferiority to his old MC. You never admit that, to you, they’re identical.

By the time you arrive, the park is swarming with _badauds_ and several EMTs. You sigh and wrap your scarf around your neck. It has been a cold spring. Buds have sprouted on the trees, but you have to navigate around piles of melting snow to get to the body.

“RCM!” you bellow when you’re close enough, flashing your badge. “Everyone needs to move along!”

Most of the _badauds_ reluctantly disperse.

“Why are you here?” you ask a woman in a medical uniform.

She looks at you like you’re a few centims short of a reál. “Because of the body?”

Kim clears his throat. “We were under the impression that medical assistance was no longer necessary.”

“Oh, yes,” she says, turning to Kim. “Yes, he’s definitely dead.”

“Then why are you all still here?”

“No one told us to leave yet.” She shrugs.

_She speaks the truth, sire._

“Did you determine the cause of death?” Kim asks.

The woman exchanges exasperated glances with another EMT. “That’s not our job, sir.”

Kim pushes up his glasses and rubs at the bridge of his nose. “Okay. Well, may we inspect the area?”

“Sure thing.”

Kim beckons you to follow him to the body, which hasn’t been moved aside from whatever the EMTs tried to do. The brown-haired man lies face down in the wet grass, dressed in shorts and a t-shirt. Kim squats down and taps his notebook with a pen.

“Detective?” He is waiting for you to make your observations.

You squat next to him, but your heel touches down on a slick patch of ground and you fall onto your ass.

Kim observes you over his notebook with mild amusement. “Are you all right, Harry?” he asks so only you can hear.

_Isn’t that nice? He’s letting you save face in front of all these doctors._

_Not much face left to save, pal._

_Interesting. He doesn’t usually call you Harry at work._

_Ouch. Ouch, ouch, ouch._

“Just my tailbone. I’m fine,” you mutter. Muddy water drips down the back of your pants and quickly soaks into your underwear. Is Kim going to make you walk home so you don’t dirty the Kineema?

You climb to your feet and manage to squat next to Kim without injuring yourself this time.

“Thoughts?” Kim prompts again.

You stare down the body for a minute, imaginary colors swirling in your field of vision.

“Can’t tell much from the footprints,” you say. “Considering all the people who’ve been here this morning, any evidence would have been trampled. We might want to complain about that later.” Kim begins scribbling in his notebook. “He’s not dressed for the cold.”

“Good point,” Kim says. “Perhaps he was moved here after being killed? _If_ he was killed, of course. I’m not sure there’s enough evidence to suspect foul play. Perhaps we should roll him over?”

Reluctantly, you lean over and roll the body so it is facing up.

“Oh…” The sound punches out of you. “Fuck.”

The dead man looks like you. At least, he looks like a version of you in which you kept drinking and using. At this point, you could pick out the face of an addict in a crowd of hundreds. It’s less based on appearance (although you and this man could be siblings) and more on a sense of recognition, a, “Yes. I know you. We’re the same.” Apparently, this ability extends to the dead.

Your eyes flash up to meet Kim’s. His eyebrows are furrowed and he stares at you with a frightening intensity.

You suddenly find that you’re standing. “I need to go,” you choke out, and hightail it to the Kineema before you throw up or pass out. The voices are conspicuously absent, leaving a buzzing sound in your ears.

Once the Kineema is in view, you realize that Kim has the keys. Heart thumping, you rest your palms on the cool metal of the motor carriage. Your reflection in the window gazes back at you. You avert your eyes. You don’t want to look at him right now.

A few minutes later, footsteps squelch in the mud behind you. “Harry?”

You stay facing the Kineema.

Kim continues, “I determined that there was no more we needed from the scene, so they’re bringing the body in for further examination.”

_He isn’t trying to be callous by mentioning the body. He’s telling you that you can leave. No harm done._

“Oh, so you’re back now?” you mutter.

Kim makes a small sound of offense and says, icily, “Where would you prefer I be?”

“Not you.” You whip around to face Kim, whose arms are crossed tightly over his chest. “I was talking to the voices in my head.”

Kim’s expression softens. He unlocks the Kineema and motions for you to get inside.

“What about my pants?” you remember as you’re halfway in. “They’re soaking wet.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

_That’s a surprise. You’ll have to think about that later._

Once you’re both sitting and the doors are shut, Kim turns to face you as well as he can in the tight quarters. “I know I’m not the best conversationalist, but if there’s ever anything you want to get off your chest, I’m here.”

“That’s not true,” you say. “You’re a great conversationalist.”

Kim smiles down at his hands. “All right, Harry. But I really mean what I said. I’m here if you want to talk.”

“What’s there to talk about?” You laugh humorlessly. “You know everything about me already.”

_It’s true. He has seen you at your ugliest. Yet he’s still here. Why might that be?_

_Oh, babe, he hasn’t seen anything_ close _to the true you. He’s only known you as Harry 2.0, new and improved. What’s going to happen when he learns about the things Harry 1.0 has done? What’s going to happen when you turn back into that man?_

Kim stares out the front window, fingers tapping out a pattern in his lap. “I was an orphan.”

You squint at him. “What?”

Kim shrugs. “You asked me earlier to tell you a secret, so here you go: I was an orphan. My parents were killed when I was a toddler and I grew up in an orphanage. So… now we both know something about each other.”

\---

You return to the 41st around noon. The cluster of desks that make up the C-Wing is empty aside from their newest hire, Gabriela Moreno, whose head is buried in a notebook.

“Oh, hey!” she says through a mouthful of sandwich. “Everyone went out for lunch. You just missed them.”

Kim sets his keys on his desk and sits down. “You decided to stay here?”

“Yeah.” She shrugs. “They don’t pay me enough to eat out.”

You laugh. “They don’t pay us enough, either.”

Kim looks relieved that you’re laughing again, offering you a small smile as you sit down at the desk across from his.

“Any news on that body in the park?” Gabriela asks.

You stare out the window and try not to listen to Kim discussing the details.

_Think about something else. Ask Officer Moreno if you can have her sandwich._

_Let’s maybe not commandeer food today._

_Gabriela Moreno is only twenty years old, but she’s taking care of two younger brothers. Their mother is in the hospital with cancer._

You glance at Gabriela. She looks relaxed and happy talking to Kim. She and Kim both turn to you and you realize they are waiting for you to say something.

“Er… what?”

“I’m going to grab something from the vending machine,” Kim repeats. “Are you hungry?”

“Yeah, but I packed something,” you say. “Sorry, I should have brought some for you. Actually, you should just have it.”

“I’m not going to eat your lunch, Harry.” Kim smiles at you again and stands up. “Be right back.”

Gabriela quickly wolfs down the rest of her sandwich and leans back in her chair. “You two make a cute couple.”

You look over your shoulder. No one is there. “Who makes a cute couple?”

“Uh, you and Lieutenant Kitsuragi?”

“Oh. We’re not—we’re not a couple.”

“Shit!” Gabriela smacks herself in the forehead. “I’m so sorry. I just assumed you were since you drive to work together and uh, well, never mind. I’m really sorry for assuming.”

“It’s no big deal.”

 _It’s_ such _a big deal. Do you think she can tell?_

_Just play it cool. Stop sweating so much!_

I can’t really control—

_Just stop the sweating! Your pants are already covered in mud. Kim will have to hose you down before you’re allowed back in the house._

“So, speaking of relationships,” Gabriela says cautiously. “I know you and Lieutenant Kitsuragi aren’t together, but is that kind of thing… frowned upon here?”

“That kind of thing?”

Gabriela glances behind her to make sure they’re still alone. “Look, I just want to know if I can mention my girlfriend or not.”

“I really don’t know,” you admit. “I’m sorry. I think I might have mentioned this before, but I—”

“Oh yeah, the amnesia. Well, don’t worry about it. I’ll try to get a sense of the culture here. I’ll let you know what I find out?” She arches an eyebrow.

“Sure, yeah. I’d be interested.”

_Tell her you’re also a member of the underground!_

_You don’t have to. She already knows._

You must be doing something weird with your face because Kim looks at you oddly when he returns with a candy bar.

“You’re eating chocolate for lunch?” you ask.

Kim’s eyes narrow behind his glasses. “Yes, and I’m going to enjoy it.”

By the time the rest of C-Wing return, you’re nursing a cup of post-lunch coffee and trying to focus on Kim's case notes. The face of the dead man in the park seems to stare back at you from every page. You don’t look up when you hear Kim and Jean discussing the body or when Judit and Gabriela start chatting about an entirely different dead body that, in your imagination, looks identical to the man in the park.

_Thought Cabinet Research Project: Mirror, Mirror, on the Corpse. Why is this dead guy bothering you so much?_

_Is this really project-worthy? It’s right there in the title you gave it! The dead guy looks like you; you look like the dead guy. There but for the grace of God go you, blah, blah, blah. But hey, your fear of death means you’ve regained your will to live! That’s pretty great, huh?_

Yeah, I guess that is pretty great!

“Hey, Shitkid,” Jean says, interrupting your realization. “Are you stoned right now or something?” He sounds exhausted.

“He’s just thinking,” Kim responds for you.

Jean eyes Kim questioningly, but he sighs and backs down. “Fine. I just hope you’re thinking about the case and not planning your next jack-off session.”

“Jean!” Judit hisses.

“We were all thinking it.”

“I really wasn’t,” Gabriela murmurs.

Jean exhales sharply and says something about the bathroom, then disappears into the hallway.

Judit turns to you with her brow furrowed. “I’m sorry, Harry. I know he’s been hard on you lately. You may not remember, but Jean’s not a bad guy. He’s just going through some things and taking it out on you.”

You try to smile. “It’s okay. I know I fucked up his life pretty badly before. I figure I deserve this.”

Kim’s voice is stern. “Detective, let’s not dwell on this right now. We’ve got a lot of work to do.”

You recognize that, just like at the park, Kim is trying to be helpful in his no-nonsense way.

You nod at him. “Yep. We’ve got crimes to solve."


	5. Chapter 5

“Maybe I should just quit,” Harry says on their way home from work. “You know what? I should have written ‘fuck the police’ on that wall in Martinaise, because fuck us.”

Since the incident with Vicquemare, Harry has been sullen and irritable. Kim has been internally fuming. Although he has tried to give Jean the benefit of the doubt as he initially did with Harry, Jean has proven much less willing to earn Kim’s approval. The logical part of Kim knows that Harry was neither a good partner nor a good friend to Jean, and that Jean is battling a lot of complex feelings regarding Harry’s sudden transformation. The passionate part of Kim wants to punch Jean in the face.

“Okay, let’s say you quit,” Kim replies evenly. “Do you have an idea of something else you could do for a living?”

Harry picks at his cuticles. “I could be an artist or something. I’ve been doing some more painting. I don’t know if it’s any good, but maybe…”

Kim’s thoughts flash to the graffito. SOMETHING BEAUTIFUL IS GOING TO HAPPEN.

“I’m not trying to doubt your artistic abilities, Harry, but I know it’s difficult to earn money as an artist.”

“If it were up to me, you wouldn’t need a job to survive. Basic income for everyone, that’s what we need. I was talking to Trant yesterday, and he said—” Harry stops. “Sorry. Going on a tangent again.”

Kim chuckles. “There’s the Communist Harry I know and love.”

It’s an expression. They both know it’s an expression. Still, Kim feels Harry peering at him curiously from the passenger seat. Kim keeps his eyes focused on the road.

“Anyway, as I’ve said before, you have my support for whatever you decide to do,” Kim continues. “I won’t lie and say I’d rather have someone else as a partner, but we’ll be friends no matter what.”

Harry accepts this with a nod and returns to gazing out the window.

“Hey, Kim,” Harry says when they’re close to home. His voice is so vigorously neutral that it has the opposite effect and raises Kim’s suspicions. “Could I make you dinner tonight?”

The back of Kim’s neck tingles. He stares resolutely at the road. “Dinner?”

“I just wanted to thank you,” Harry says. “You do so much for me. I want to do something in return.”

Kim chances a glance at him. “Harry, you know that you don’t owe me anything, right?”

“Oh. Okay.” Harry tries and fails to mask his disappointment. “Yeah, I knew that.”

“Not that I would say no to dinner,” Kim adds quickly. “Just not as a way to pay me back for something. All right?”

“Oh,” Harry says again. “Oh! Sure. Yes. Great.”

Kim hides his smile as he pulls up to the house. “So, what time should I come by?”

\---

Kim stands in front of his closet, tapping his foot against the ground. What exactly does one wear to a… what is this, anyway? A thank you dinner? An after-work meeting between two coworkers? A date? It’s possible that even Harry isn’t sure.

The anxiety pulling at Kim’s stomach sure makes it feel like he’s preparing for a date. He checks his watch again to find that only five minutes have passed. He still has plenty of time. So, back to the question of clothing. It seems impolite somehow to wear his work clothes, even though his usual work clothes are technically civilian clothes. He eventually settles on a sweater and jeans. It’s comfortable, but not too comfortable.

Most evenings, his routine is pretty much the same: drive home, make a quick dinner, do some reading or listen to music, have his nightly cigarette with Harry, and go to bed. If he doesn’t have work in the morning, he might bring a bottle of wine to the bathtub and soak until his fingers prune. Dinner with Harry has thrown a wrench in his schedule, which leaves him fidgety and restless.

Kim tries to distract himself with his notes on the body they found in the park, but all he can think about is Harry’s reaction when he saw the dead man’s face. The man had more than a passing resemblance to Harry and was clearly an alcoholic on top of that; Kim can't blame Harry for his distress. He sets his notebook back on the table and rubs at his temples.

Kim nearly jumps at a knock on the door. He finds Harry outside looking embarrassed.

“Is everything okay?”

“Hey, yeah,” Harry says. “I know it’s an hour before I told you to come over, but everything ended up taking a lot less time than I thought so, er, if you’re hungry… But no rush if you’re not ready.”

“I’m not doing anything important.” Kim glances at his notebook. “Just let me put on some shoes.”

“Only if you want to. There’s no dress code.” Harry shakes his head sharply. “Not that you don’t look nice.”

Kim pulls on a pair of sneakers. “And _this_ is a definite improvement over this afternoon,” he says, waving a hand at Harry’s outfit. Mercifully, Harry has changed out of his dirty trousers into a clean—but equally flared—gray pair. “There’s no mud, for one thing.”

“You didn’t like the mud?” Harry asks as they head downstairs. “I thought I was making a fashion statement. Was even looking into a modelling gig.”

Kim snorts. “In that case, I’m going to hope that your cooking skills are better than your sense of fashion.”

“Hah. I hope so, too.”

Kim halts when they enter Harry’s apartment. “It smells good.”

“You don’t have to sound so surprised.”

“I wasn’t—” Kim stops when he realizes Harry is teasing him. He smiles. “I really wasn’t. So, what did you make?”

Harry scratches the back of his neck. “It’s just pasta, nothing fancy. Oh, and salad. I didn’t really know what I could cook, so I asked Judit for some ideas.”

Kim wants to ask how long Harry has been planning this, but he keeps his mouth shut and lets Harry lead him to the table. Very carefully, Harry doles out the salad and pasta into flat bowls. He watches Kim expectantly after he takes a bite.

“It’s great, Harry.” And it actually is, although Kim would have lied through his teeth if it weren’t.

“Eh, it’s all thanks to Judit,” Harry says, but he can’t hide his delight.

“I didn’t realize you two were spending so much time together. Are you remembering her from before?”

Harry shakes his head. “No, we’ve just been talking a lot at work. Probably for the best that I don’t remember. Sounds like I was an asshole to her, but what’s new? At least she’s not mad at me. She said dealing with drunk me wasn’t too different from dealing with her kids.”

“I’ve met Judit’s kids,” Kim says, spearing a piece of lettuce with his fork. “They’re terrors.”

Harry grimaces. “As bad as Cuno?”

“They make Cuno look like the next Innocence.”

“Fuck.” Harry bursts out in laughter. “I guess I owe Judit another apology.”

As they eat, Kim examines the bookshelves beside the table. Colorful spines reveal the titles of books as eclectic as the voices in Harry’s head: Dick Mullen pulps, historical romance novels, unalphabetized encyclopedia volumes, an illustrated history of Revachol. Harry has even added a few new board games to the collection he started in Martinaise.

Harry notices him looking. “Want to play one later?”

Kim pretends to consider this, perching his chin on his hand. “Hmm. I just don’t know if it would be right.”

“What do you mean?”

Kim turns his solemn gaze to Harry. “I’m your guest, aren’t I? It would be rude for me to kick your ass in your own home.”

Harry laughs. “My apartment, my rules, and I say that _anybody’s_ ass can be kicked here.”

“I’m not sure that was in the lease.”

Harry grins ferally. “Oh, it’s on, _Lieutenant_.”

With a competition to look forward to, they quickly finish eating and clear the table, dirty dishes stacked precariously in the sink.

“Can I pick the game?” Harry asks, jiggling his leg up and down excitedly.

“Sure. Just don’t expect it to give you the advantage.”

Harry glowers at him and digs through his stack of board games. “You’re going to feel pretty stupid when I obliterate you.”

Kim smirks. He would never admit it, but he _loves_ it when Harry gets playfully combative. They have such a (surprisingly?) relaxed and supportive relationship that it’s fun to pretend to be at each other’s throats. Kim isn’t sure what that says about him; probably nothing good.

“It’s called _L'Attaque_ ,” Harry says, thumping the box on the table. “It’s a military strategy game. Each of us gets a set of pawns that represent different soldiers and whatnot, and the goal is to capture the other person’s flag. The fun part is that you play with your pawns facing you so you can’t tell what rank the other player’s soldiers are. Higher numbered soldiers beat lower numbers, and so on. The flag and bombs—oh yeah, there are also bombs—look just like the soldier pieces from behind, so your soldier might end up getting attacked or blown up if you assume the wrong piece is the flag.”

Kim grabs the instructions from the box and skims through them. “Easy enough.”

“I’m really good at this game. Just a warning.” Harry winks.

\---

Harry loses spectacularly.

“It’s not your fault.” Kim grins, bouncing Harry’s flag pawn in his palm. “You just have a terrible poker face. I could tell exactly what you were thinking the whole time.”

Harry pouts. “I’m supposed to be the one with psychic abilities.”

“It’s not ESP. It’s just seeing the obvious.”

Harry cocks his head to the side. “If you’re so good at observing, tell me what I’m thinking right now.”

“I’m _not_ good at observing, not at all,” Kim says. “That’s more your forte. Like I said, you just have an obvious face.”

“Okay, fine, if you’re so good at looking at my ‘obvious face,’ tell me what I’m thinking.”

Kim scoffs, but his eyes begin travelling slowly over Harry’s face. Kim doesn’t have any qualms about making eye contact, but he rarely has the luxury to really _look_ at someone without it feeling awkward. Harry is particularly hard to get a good look at, as he’s twitchy and watchful whenever he’s not consumed with his internal dialogue. So, Kim allows himself to look. He notes that Harry looks healthier and perhaps younger than he did six weeks ago, the puffy ruddiness of alcohol abuse and lack of sleep slowly fading from his features. Harry has also kept up with shaving; Kim spots a tiny nick where he cut his chin. Harry’s overlong hair, brown streaked with the first signs of gray, is tousled as usual, a lock spilling over his forehead.

Throughout Kim’s observation, Harry has valiantly attempted to keep his features neutral, but his pupils are dilated in a way Kim hasn’t seen since Harry did speed their first day together. However, for no real reason at all, Kim is suddenly certain that Harry is sober and will work hard to stay sober. The realization assuages a deep fear that has haunted Kim since Martinaise. He has had recurring nightmares of finding Harry passed out or dead in his apartment.

In the midst of this overwhelming relief, Kim notices something in Harry’s face that chills him for another reason: Harry has dropped his mask and is looking at him with absolute affection. The intensity of it is something Kim has never experienced before.

However, doubt quickly creeps into Kim’s mind. As he admitted, reading people is more of Harry’s strength. Maybe he’s just seeing what he wants to see. Maybe he just needs to clean his glasses.

“You’re thinking about…” Kim laughs softly and shakes his head. “You know what? I must not be as good at reading you as I thought. I have no idea what you’re thinking.”

Harry frowns. “You’re lying,” he says. “But that’s okay.”

Kim doesn’t bother protesting the accusation. “It is?”

Harry blows out air through his teeth and absently taps a game pawn on the table. “I would lie, too, if I were you.”

“You would?” Kim suddenly feels very lost in the conversation. “Why?”

Harry laughs mirthlessly. “I mean, have you met me? Have you met _you_?”

“Harry… I’m not exactly sure what we’re talking about anymore.”

Just like that, Harry’s expression goes blank. “Oh. Never mind, then.” He makes a strange choking noise and stands up. “Er, do you want to have a cigarette now? Unless you’re tired. I don’t want to keep you up too late.”

“Harry, I—”

“Or maybe I’ll just go to bed,” Harry says. “I’m not sure I feel like smoking tonight.”

“I… Okay.” Kim blinks. “I guess I’ll head home, then.”

Harry wordlessly watches Kim as he puts on his shoes.

“Thank you again for dinner tonight, Harry,” Kim says at the threshold. “It was wonderful.”

“Oh, yeah,” Harry says absently. “No problem.” He is already somewhere else.

Kim returns upstairs in a haze of confusion. He is used to Harry’s unpredictable emotions by now, but this is something new.

In his apartment, Kim changes into pajamas and heats up a kettle for tea, then sinks into the couch and lights a cigarette. Basha hates it when he smokes inside, but Kim just doesn’t have the energy to go back downstairs. He turns on the radio but doesn’t listen to it. If only he could have written down exactly what Harry said. Maybe then he’d be able to decipher whatever just happened.

Kim’s thoughts are disrupted when someone knocks on the door for the second time this evening.

“Harry,” Kim says as he opens the door, because of course it’s him.

Harry’s eyes and cheeks are red; damp strands of hair stick to his forehead. It’s clear he was crying and tried to wash his face to hide the evidence.

“I’m sorry.” Harry’s voice is ragged.

“For what? You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Harry blinks rapidly, staring at a corner of the hallway ceiling. “I was rude to you.”

Kim sighs. “A little confusing, maybe, but hardly rude. Do you want to come inside?”

“No. I just wanted to apologize. I’ll leave you alone now.”

Kim grabs Harry’s arm before he can turn away. “Don’t be ridiculous. Come on in. Don’t make me force you.”

Harry allows himself to be herded into Kim’s apartment like an oversized sheep.

“You’re worrying me,” Kim says. “Sit down? I’ll make us some tea.”

Harry drops into an armchair and groans, covering his face with his hands. Kim keeps an eye on him the entire time he’s preparing the tea, afraid that Harry will disappear if he looks away for more than a second.

“Don’t drink it just yet; it’s too hot,” Kim says as he sets the mugs on the coffee table.

Harry keeps his face covered and mutters a thank you.

“Harry, will you talk to me?”

Harry lets his hands drop. Kim pretends not to notice the shininess in his eyes. “I fucked up,” he says.

An icy hand closes around Kim’s heart. “Did you drink or take something?”

“No.”

Kim will _not_ demonize him if he’s slipped up. “It’s okay if you did, Harry.”

“I really didn’t.”

“Okay. I’m sorry. How did you fuck up, then?”

Harry stares mournfully at his lap. “I ruined our friendship.”

Kim cocks an eyebrow. “If Harry Du Bois being a little weird was going to bother me that much, I wouldn’t have made it twenty-four hours in Martinaise.”

“I just… I thought…” Harry groans again. “I let myself get my hopes up and then I was a dick to you.”

“Harry. Harry, look at me.” Kim approaches the armchair and puts a hand on each of Harry’s shoulders. “You weren’t a dick to me. You’ve never been a dick to me. I don’t know what you think you did tonight, but whatever it was, it didn’t scare me away.”

“Don’t.” Harry’s eyes are hazy with tears. “Don’t let me get away with this shit. I did it with Dora at the end; I remember that much. I don’t want to do it with you.”

“I don’t understand. Do what?” A hundred thoughts race through Kim’s head. He wonders if this is how Harry feels all the time.

“Me… not being able to handle rejection,” Harry mutters. “I don’t want to be that kind of person anymore.”

“But when did I reject—” Kim stops, pieces falling into place. So, he was right about what he saw in Harry’s face after all. “Harry, listen to me carefully. I never rejected you. I’m just not a mind reader, no matter how good I am at _L'Attaque_. Most people aren't psychic.” He smiles. “That’s a uniquely Harry thing. If you want _me_ to know something, you have to tell me.”

Harry squints at him. "Really?"

"Yes, really."

Harry nods and clenches his fists as if to steel himself for something.

“Kim,” he says. “You know I’m crazy about you, right?”

Kim sucks in a breath. “I’m starting to get that, yes.” He realizes his hands are still gripping Harry’s shoulders.

“I know people call me crazy all the time,” Harry adds. “But I just mean that I like you a lot.”

Kim tries to speak but finds that his throat has closed up. If only Harry truly understood his ability to break down the walls Kim has so carefully constructed around himself. Like so many of Harry’s abilities, it’s frightening, wildly intimate, and potentially dangerous. This doesn’t stop Kim from leaning down and pressing a soft kiss to Harry’s mouth. Harry grunts in surprise. He doesn’t have time to reciprocate before Kim draws back. When their eyes meet, Harry grins in a way Kim imagines is supposed to be charming. And yes, Kim realizes, it kind of is.

Kim finally manages to speak: “I like you, too.” It feels like a foolishly inadequate way to express his feelings, but his tongue isn’t cooperating with his brain.

Harry’s grin slips. “You know, ah…” He clears his throat. “You deserve so much better than me. I hope you know that.”

Kim pulls away from Harry and sits on the couch. He picks up his tea just to have something to hold. It grounds him, helps him find his words. “I haven’t been in a relationship in ten years. It’s not like I have a line of suitors waiting outside my door.” He bites his lip. “And even if there were, it wouldn’t make any difference.”

“You sure? Aside from all _this_ ,” Harry waves vaguely at his body, “I’m an ex-alcoholic _and_ an ex-junkie amnesiac who has a terrible track record with relationships and just figured out his sexuality at the age of forty-four.”

The mug in Kim’s hands is too hot to be touching but he just grips it tighter. “There’s no shame in taking time to learn about yourself. As for the other things, ‘ex’ means they’re in the past. Sobriety is something you’ll always have to work at, but you _are_ working at it. You’re working hard. You’re also a brilliant detective and, from I’ve seen, a hell of an artist. You’re empathetic, and kind, and fun. You’re a good friend. You make me a better person.”

Kim stops rambling before he can say anything really embarrassing. He would never be that honest with anyone other than Harry. Human can opener, indeed.

Harry looks stunned. “So… you aren’t concerned at all?”

“Oh, I’m terrified,” Kim admits with a shaky laugh. “But I’m willing to give this a try.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The game Harry and Kim play is a Disco Elysium version of Stratego. L'Attaque was the real-life title of an older, French version of the game.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Reference to vomiting.

You awake from a dreamless sleep to the tinny sound of an alarm clock and the sweet-spicy smell of cloves and citrus. You’re warm and comfortable, your chin pressed into something soft. With a jolt, you realize that it’s the back of Kim Kitsuragi’s head. One of your arms is draped over him, the other bent underneath your pillow.

Hearing you shift, Kim rolls over to face you and smiles sleepily. “Good morning.”

_Well, that sight killed you. What a way to go._

_You haven’t even had sex yet. If your heart is about to explode just from waking up next to the man, you won’t make it a week into this relationship._

“Guh— good morning.” Your voice is hoarse. “Your hair smells amazing.”

“Did you sleep all right?” The stressors of the day have yet to wear down on Kim; he looks at you with such a relaxed, gentle openness it nearly tears a sob from your lungs.

“Yeah.” You swallow thickly and nod against the pillow. “Really well.”

Kim squints at you. “Are you okay?”

You hesitate. “Do I not seem okay?”

“A little startled, maybe.”

“I just can’t believe that actually happened,” you say. “It’s good though. For real.”

Kim tucks a piece of hair behind your ear and leans forward to kiss you. “I think so, too.”

You don’t remember much beyond the past two months, but you would still categorize last night as one of the best in your life. After a lot of talking—and a bit of making out on Kim’s couch—Kim realized in a panic that you had to be awake in five hours for work. He invited you to spend the night with the promise that he’d take you on “an actual date” this weekend.

_Stop reminiscing and kiss him back!_

You do, snaking your arm back around Kim. He reciprocates enthusiastically, sliding a hand beneath your undershirt to rest between your shoulder blades. You cup his face, feeling the movement of his jaw. His mouth and skin are warm against yours.

“We should… probably get ready for work,” Kim says breathlessly, pulling your hand away from his face and clasping it in his own.

You pout at Kim and give him your best puppy-dog eyes, but he just laughs and shakes his head.

“Oh, fine,” you mumble, sitting up and sliding out of the bed.

“Wait,” Kim says as your fingers slip apart. “One thing before you go. I want to talk about work.”

_You blew it, garbage babe. He’s already bored with you._

“Can’t we have some coffee first?” you ask, collecting your pants and jacket from where you tossed them on the floor last night.

Kim sits up and rubs his eyes. “No, I mean we should talk about how we’re going to act at work. What we’re going to tell people.” He takes a deep breath. “Or _not_ tell people.”

You linger at the edge of the bed. “I don’t have a problem with anyone knowing.” You don’t mean it to sound accusatory, but it does, and Kim winces.

“You have to understand, Harry, that kind of honesty at the 57th would have risked my job and maybe even my safety. I haven’t been at the 41st long enough to know if it would be any different.” He fumbles for his glasses on the nightstand. “It’s not that I’m embarrassed or want to take it back. We just live in a shitty, prejudiced world.”

_Most of C-Wing is already awake, even at this early hour. At the 41st, Satellite-Officer Jean Vicquemare is hard at work. He never went home last night, falling asleep on a stack of papers at his desk. Having turned you over to Kim and partnered up Judit and Gabriela, he’s working alone until C-Wing can hire someone new. Patrol Officer Judit Minot and Civilian Consultant Trant Heidelstam are at their respective apartments, getting their children ready for school. Patrol Officer Gabriela Moreno is the only one still asleep, snoring softly next to her girlfriend, Lisa._

“Gabriela has a girlfriend,” you point out, pulling on your jacket. “Shit. I don’t know if I was supposed to tell anyone.”

Kim considers this. “That’s potentially good news, but Officer Moreno is only one person. Plus, she’s new. So, if it’s all right with you, can we just keep this to ourselves for now?

“Okay.”

“Okay?” He looks relieved.

“Sure. I’ll act totally normal.”

You stumble while shimmying into your pants, knocking your knee into the bedpost.

The corners of Kim’s eyes crinkle. “Maybe not _totally_ normal, or everyone will know something is up.”

\---

Acting normal at work is difficult when all you want to do is crawl across your desk and ravish your partner. Each time Kim catches you staring at him starry-eyed, he shoots you a venomous glare that would be terrifying if not for the telltale pinkness of his ears.

“Detective,” he hisses after the fifth time. “Do you remember what we talked about this morning?”

“I wasn’t doing anything,” you whisper back. You’re a terrible whisperer. Trant glances up from his book curiously.

Kim hunches over the documents he’s transcribing from his notebook. “Fine, stare all you want. I’m just not going to look at you anymore.”

You can’t stop yourself from grinning, but it quickly fades when Jean walks into C-Wing’s office. You assumed his attitude toward you would mellow as the weeks wore on, but if anything, his jabs have become sharper and more frequent. Two of your voices debate over whether to ignore Jean or make small talk.

Small talk wins. “That must be some case you’re working on.”

Jean starts at the sound of your voice. “What makes you say that?” He hangs his coat on the back of his chair and sits down.

“Because you didn’t go home last night…” You trail off when you remember what Kim told you about your observations _creeping people the fuck out_.

Jean rolls his eyes. “How is it that you don’t remember me, yet you still have a front row seat to my life?”

“I don’t know,” you say. “It just happens.”

Trant leans back, listening to your conversation in rapt attention. “If I may interject?”

“No,” Jean says.

“It’ll only be a moment.” Trant taps on the opened book in front of him. “Harry, I’ve been doing some reading on the Pale. Specifically, the theory that it can generate or enhance abilities in certain individuals.”

Just the mention of the Pale sends a jolt of fear and excitement down your spine.

Jean scoffs. “Bullshit.”

“Perhaps it is,” Trant admits. “But I find it very intriguing that Harry was exposed to the Pale and seems to have what we might call supra-natural abilities.”

“He was like that _way_ before Martinaise,” Jean says. “And Lieutenant Kitsuragi was exposed to the Pale, too, right? I don’t see him communing with inanimate objects or knowing details about my personal life.”

“Ah, no,” Kim says, looking embarrassed.

Trant rubs his chin. “Well, as I said, this effect may only be present in certain individuals. Perhaps—and no offense, Lieutenant Kitsuragi—but perhaps Harry is particularly sensitive to the Pale. Tell me, Harry, did you ever have any significant contact with it before Martinaise?”

You shrug. “I wouldn’t remember it if I did.”

_You wouldn’t, would you? That sweet, sweet annihilation is just one of the Pale’s many perks._

“Yes, I’m glad you mentioned that!” Trant beams at you. “Your amnesia brings up another fascinating point from my research, namely the Pale’s effect on memory. There have been several accounts of amnesia as a result of exposure.”

“Trant, stop trying to find a supra-natural explanation for Harry’s fucking amnesia, especially when you’re on the clock,” Jean says. “The truth is, Harry got even more shitfaced than usual and, at least from his point of view, wiped us all out of existence.”

You swallow. “I didn’t mean to.”

Jean’s eyes are hard. “You don’t mean to do half the shit you do, Harry. That’s the problem.”

You feel sick to your stomach. Desperately, you look at Kim. Hands clasped together on top of his desk, posture rigid, he’s staring at Jean like a sniper calculating a shot.

"Officer Vicquemare,” Kim says coolly. “I’m about to have a cigarette. Would you like to join me?”

_He’s giving Jean the eyebrow! Let’s see if it works on him._

Jean hesitates, but only for a moment. “Ah… sure, Lieutenant.”

_Success!_

Kim glances over his shoulder as the two of them head toward the hallway. “See you in a bit.”

You stand up a moment later.

“Where are _you_ going?” Trant asks.

“Bathroom,” you mutter, poking your head around the door.

“I’d love to continue our conversation on the Pale sometime, if you wouldn’t mind,” Trant says. “Believe it or not, I’m something of a skeptic myself. Still, I think it’s a topic worth exploring.”

“Sure thing, Trant.”

You hurry down the hallway, pausing at the stairwell to listen. After you hear the heavy clang of the door to the roof slamming shut, you climb to the top of the stairs and crack open the door. A cool breeze wafts over your face. You can’t see Kim and Jean, but you can hear them.

“—that you only smoke once per day,” Jean is saying. “So why do I get the honor?”

You hear the click of a lighter. The smell of cigarette smoke filters into the stairwell.

“I wanted to talk to you in private,” Kim says. “This seemed like the best opportunity.”

“Hmm. What did you want to talk about?”

“I think you already know, Officer.”

Jean makes a strangled sound. “Harry, then? What about him?”

“Is there a reason you’re being so hard on him? He’s been sober for nearly two months, now.”

Jean laughs bitterly. “You might think you know Harry, but you don’t. His whole sober act isn’t going to last forever.” He pauses for a moment. “You know how many times all this has happened? How many times he’s said he’s getting clean, only to have him missing from work the next day? How many times I’ve had to clean up puke or drive him to the hospital when he’s too fucked up to stand?”

You sink to your knees. The cement is cold through the cloth of your pants. At the last moment, you remember to grab the door again before it shuts.

“I have faith that this time will be different,” Kim says.

“So did I, a million times before. What makes you so special?”

Although you can’t see Kim, you can feel his discomfort. “What do you mean?”

“The rest of us—people who have known Harry for years—have tried and failed. Why would _you_ make him get his act together?”

“I’m not _making_ Harry do anything.”

“Are you two fucking? Is that it?”

“Officer Vicquemare,” Kim says sharply. “I accept the fact that I never knew Harry before he lost his memory. I also understand how difficult it is to trust someone who has hurt you. Believe me, I do. All I’m asking is that you show Harry some kindness. You don’t have to treat him like a friend, just a human being.”

Both men are quiet for a moment.

“I can try,” Jean finally says. “I… Damn it. It’s a fucking mess here, Kitsuragi. I don’t want to be some—some _villain_.”

“I never thought you were.”

Jean sighs heavily. “I was thrilled to hear you’d be joining us, you know. I think you’re a great cop. I couldn’t believe Harry was the one who got you to come here. I… Shit. I should probably talk to him.”

You recognize the sound of a cigarette being crushed under a boot. From your kneeling position, you break into a sprint down the stairs. Your bullet wound is shooting pain down your leg by the time you reach your desk. In the short time you’ve been gone, Judit and Gabriela have returned from patrolling, cheeks still pink from the cold.

“Good break?” Trant asks, flipping through his book on the Pale.

You nod breathlessly and push your sweaty hair back from your forehead.

Kim and Jean return less than a minute later, smelling faintly of smoke.

_Quickly, my lord! Pretend to be interested in that piece of paper on your desk._

You stare at the paper in rapt attention until you realize it’s a takeout menu for the deli down the street.

“Hungry?” Kim asks as he takes a seat. He smiles at you knowingly.

You don’t get a chance to reply before Jean claps his hands for attention. “All right, C-Wing, listen up. Mandatory team-building session this evening at Jamrock Lanes.”

“We’re going bowling?” Gabriela asks.

“I suppose David can watch the boys tonight,” Judit says. “I’m in!”

“You have to be in. That’s what mandatory means.” Jean smiles. Although the expression utterly transforms his face, something about it is naggingly familiar. “19:00 sharp.”

“Kim,” you whisper. “What is bowling?”

Kim chuckles quietly. “It’s a game where you knock things down with other things. Don’t worry; you’ll love it.”

From across the room, Jean catches your eye. After a moment of hesitation, he offers you a nod.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CWs not covered in the fic tags: In the second half of the chapter, there is a non-graphic description of police violence and one reference to potential suicidal thoughts.

Jamrock Lanes is a colorful riot of a building that stinks of smoke and sweat. Flickering neon signs and bright, abstract murals cover the walls. Harry spends a few moments admiring the murals when they arrive.

“I like this one.” He points to an orange and green splash of triangles and waves.

“Hmm.” Kim tilts his head. It just looks like shapes to him, but he has never been particularly attuned to contemporary art.

“It talks to me,” Harry says. “Not like my tie talked to me—it’s different.”

The music playing from the bowling alley’s speakers is not unlike that at the church-turned-nightclub in Martinaise, although, being a bit quieter, it doesn’t hurt Kim’s teeth quite so much.

“Disco Elysium,” Harry says, as if reading his mind. The name Harry suggested was strange and unsuitable for an anodic dance club. That might have been why the kids liked it so much.

“Hey, lieutenants!” someone calls to them. It’s Gabriela. She and the rest of C-Wing are gathered around two lanes at the far end of the alley. Judit and Jean have come alone. Trant has brought Mikael, who is curled up on a plastic bench with a book in his lap. Gabriela is accompanied by two teenage boys and a woman about her age.

“These are my brothers, Diego and Arlo,” Gabriela says as they approach. “And this is my friend, Lisa.”

Harry decides to shake everyone’s hands with perhaps too much enthusiasm.

“Oh! Nice to meet you,” Lisa says, shooting a surprised glance at Gabriela.

Mikael eyes Harry warily, but he relaxes when Harry just waves at him.

“It’s nice to meet all of you,” Kim says without extending his hand. He glances to Harry for confirmation that Lisa is Gabriela’s girlfriend. Harry has never met the woman, but he tends to know these things. Harry seems to understand Kim’s silent question, nodding in his direction.

“Go get your shoes and bowling balls,” Judit says cheerfully. “Harry, if you pick one lighter than eight pounds, I’m making you return it.”

Harry and Kim each rent a pair of foul-smelling shoes and spend nearly fifteen minutes selecting bowling balls. Harry insists on holding each one up to his ear.

“Some of them like me more than others,” he explains. “I don’t know if I’ve ever bowled before, so I should at least pick a friendly ball.”

It may be an indication that they’re spending too much time together, but the idea of a friendly bowling ball makes a strange kind of sense to Kim.

“Finally,” Jean grumbles when they return to the group. “Judit, you’re up first.”

Trant sets a glass of amber beer on their shared table. Trant isn’t the only one drinking and Kim is surprised to find that it irks him. He has nothing against alcohol in general, but inviting Harry to an activity involving drinking so soon in his recovery seems almost cruel. Kim wonders if he is being overly sensitive until he catches Harry looking at the glass askance, as if it might somehow find its way into his unwilling hand. Kim wants to squeeze Harry’s arm in reassurance. He settles for letting their sides bump together.

“Anytime you want to leave, we’re gone,” he murmurs.

“Yeah.” Harry clenches and unclenches his fists. “We have to stay for at least a little while. I think this might be Jean’s way of… I don’t know… mending bridges, or fences, or whatever the phrase is?”

“I’m inclined to agree.” Kim leans his head toward Harry’s. “By the way, I know you were listening to us on the roof earlier.”

Harry smiles sheepishly. “And you say you’re not observant?”

“I’m only observant when it comes to you.”

Harry looks so moved by this remark that Kim feels oddly exposed. Suppressing the feeling, Kim feigns interest in Judit’s bowling game.

“Your turn, Harry,” Judit announces, placing her bowling ball in the return with a metallic thunk. She comes to stand by Kim.

Gabriela claps. “You killed it, Jude.”

“Yes, nice work, Officer Minot,” Kim says. “A strike on the first try.”

Judit smiles toothily. “I used to be in a league. It was kind of a date night thing for David and me back when we had date nights.”

Harry picks up his bowling ball delicately, as if he’s handling a bomb. He approaches the painted line on the floor and glances back at Kim. Kim shoots him a thumbs up. Somewhat awkwardly, Harry staggers his feet and holds the ball to his face, eyeing its trajectory. With a heavy swing, he sends the ball careening and manages to knock eight pins to the floor.

“Kim, look at that!” Harry cries, wheeling around. “I actually did it!”

“You’ve still got another turn,” Kim says, smiling. “See if you can get the last two.”

While Harry hovers over the ball return, Judit nudges Kim with her elbow.

“You’ve been good for Harry,” she whispers. “I’ve never seen him this happy. Or this well behaved.”

Kim clasps his hands behind his back. It’s a defensive posture, although Kim knows he has nothing to fear from Judit. “Mm. That’s kind of you to say, but I can’t take responsibility for anything.”

Judit snorts loudly. It makes Kim like her even more. “I know you’re trying to be modest, Lieutenant, but everyone can see how much you’ve helped Harry.”

Kim wills his face to remain neutral. “Yes, everyone seems to see that. What no one sees is how much Harry has helped me.”

Judit opens her mouth, then hesitates. She doesn’t get a chance to speak before Harry returns, beaming.

“Kim, were you watching? I got all ten!”

“Great job, Harry. Ace's high?”

“Fuck yeah, ace's high!”

The smack of their hands leaves Kim’s palm tingling.

“Are all those gym classes coming back to you, Shitkid?” Jean asks. The use of the nickname seems affectionate rather than hostile, but Kim watches Harry closely for a reaction.

Harry smiles easily. “I guess so, although that must have been a hell of a school if we had a bowling alley.”

Jean’s laugh startles Kim and seems to startle Jean himself. Jean clears his throat and looks away abruptly.

It is Kim’s turn next. His competitive streak does not extend to bowling and this is reflected in his game. He knocks over a total of four pins and returns to Harry’s side with a shrug.

“We can’t all be bowling superstars like you,” he says.

In the short time Kim has been gone, Harry has zeroed in on Trant’s beer again. He absently scratches his arm over the sleeve.

Kim taps him on the shoulder. “Harry?”

Harry jolts in surprise. “Sorry. Just, er, thinking.”

“Want to get something to eat?”

“Actually…” Harry grimaces. “I need to put on a patch. I didn’t do it today.”

Kim’s hands find their way behind his back again. “Why not? You should have about three weeks left before you’re done.”

“I didn’t think I needed it.” Harry runs a hand through his hair. “I haven’t had any cravings lately.”

“This is also the first time you’ve been anywhere near alcohol. Come on, I’ll help you.”

“Okay.”

To the questioning glances of the rest of C-Wing, they excuse themselves and head toward the bathroom. Kim curses himself for forgetting to help Harry apply the patch this morning. In all the strange, new excitement of finally admitting their feelings, it was the last thing on Kim’s mind. Harry is perfectly capable of sticking something to his arm by himself, of course, but the routine holds them both accountable.

The men’s bathroom is painted in the same lurid colors as the rest of the building and, for some reason, smells even more like sweat. On the mirror, someone has scratched a name and phone number beside a crude etching of a penis.

Harry rummages in his pocket for a small paper envelope. He tears it open and hands the patch to Kim.

“Here you go. I’m sorry for not putting it on earlier.”

Kim rolls up Harry’s sleeve and uses his thumbs to press the patch firmly onto his forearm. “It’s fine. The important thing is that you recognized what you were thinking and stopped yourself from going any further with it.”

Harry’s breath ghosts along the back of Kim’s neck. “Kim, you’re the coolest.”

Kim’s hands linger on Harry’s arm. He looks up to find Harry smiling at him.

Kim smiles back. “What?”

“We finally have some alone time.” Harry wiggles his eyebrows. “What do you say?”

Kim rolls Harry’s sleeve back down and buttons the cuff even though it wasn’t buttoned before. “Absolutely not. This is a public bathroom.”

“I didn’t mean ‘take me into the stall and have your way with me.’ Although… But no. I just wanted to kiss you.” Sensing Kim’s hesitation, Harry’s face falls. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have—Let’s head back.”

Kim glances quickly at the door, then pushes Harry’s head down and crushes their mouths together. Immediately, Harry’s hands are all over him: his jaw, the small of his back, his hair. Jagged stubble scratches Kim’s cheeks. Harry’s mouth tastes like coffee and potato chips.

“Hey, Kim?” Harry gasps when they break apart, his eyes dark.

“Yeah?” Kim works to catch his breath.

“Do you think it’s possible to fall in love with someone you’ve only known for a couple of months?”

Kim shivers. “I think… it’s definitely possible.” He swallows around the tightness in his throat. “But I also think a declaration like that might be made in a better place than a bowling alley bathroom.”

Harry laughs. “Fair enough.” He drums his fingers on the yellow laminate counter. “Although we could do worse. I’ve been in shittier bathrooms than this one.”

Kim relaxes. “Oh, I know. Don’t forget we shared one at the Whirling. I cut myself on a beer can while showering that first night.”

“What?” Harry’s eyes widen. “You used that bathroom _before_ the tribunal? The door between the rooms was always locked. I thought it was another challenge.”

Kim bursts into laughter. “You thought I didn’t shower all week? I locked the door to my room after I used it, Harry. I didn’t want you barging in. You don’t need to look so horrified.”

“Huh… I guess I just hate being reminded that you saw me like that.”

They hear the door opening at the same time. Harry throws himself at the sink to wash his hands. Kim fiddles with the paper towel dispenser, heart racing.

“Hello, there!” Trant says pleasantly. “We were wondering if one or both of you drowned. I was told to come here to check on you.”

“No drowning here,” Harry says. “Kim and I were just wondering about the history of this building. Do you know anything about it?”

Trant’s face brightens. “As a matter of fact, I do!”

As Trant rattles off some trivia, Kim is impressed yet again by Harry’s ability to know just the right thing to say. Kim, on the other hand, is still too flustered to talk. He catches his reflection in the vandalized mirror. His face is red where Harry’s stubble scratched him. Shit. All he can hope for is that the rest of C-Wing is less observant than Harry.

A minute into Trant’s lecture, Jean bursts into the bathroom. He stares at the three of them in disbelief. “What the fuck is everyone doing in here?”

“Sorry,” Trant says. “We got caught up in conversation.”

“Well, take your conversation back outside. The rest of us can’t bowl until Harry takes his turn.”

“I get another turn?” Harry asks.

Jean pinches the bridge of his nose. “Yes, you get several more turns.”

“I was joking.” Harry grins.

“No.” Jean shakes his head. “You’re banned from making jokes until you get your memory back.”

Harry considers this. “But what if I never do?”

“Then I guess you can say goodbye to your comedian career.”

Kim takes the opportunity to duck out of the bathroom before Jean can get a good look at his face. The rest of them follow closely behind.

Jean hesitates outside the door. “Actually, Harry, could I talk to you for a moment?”

“I…” Harry looks at Kim with a plea in his eyes. Kim can only offer him a small shrug. “Er, yeah. Sure.”

\---

After Harry and Jean’s conversation, Kim can only compare Harry to someone who has witnessed a brutal murder. Kim has seen the look before, many times. All the levity has drained from Harry's face. His skin is pale, his eyes glazed over. When Kim steps closer to greet him, he realizes that Harry is shaking.

“I want to go home,” Harry says. “Now.”

“Of course.” Kim glances behind him. “Where is Officer Vicquemare?”

“Smoking outside,” Harry mutters. “I think.”

Kim apologizes to everyone for leaving early while Harry fidgets by his side, his attention elsewhere. They return their shoes to the counter, leaving the bowling balls for someone else to take care of.

It is dark outside, the moon obscured by clouds. Kim looks around but he doesn’t see Jean anywhere by the entrance. He and Harry get into the Kineema in silence.

Kim turns the key and the engine rumbles to life. “Harry?”

“Hmm?”

“Can you tell me what’s wrong? What did Jean say to you?”

Kim steers the Kineema onto the main road. Harry is quiet for a moment.

“We talked about… stuff,” he says finally. “All the terrible stuff I did to Jean, all the stuff he’s done to me. Which honestly, his stuff doesn’t even compare to mine. I’m a shithead, Kim, or whatever is worse than that.”

“Harry…”

“Don’t tell me I’m not,” Harry says sharply. “Apparently, one time I got angry at Jean for trying to stop me from getting high at work. You know what I did? I threw his apartment keys in the dumpster. He had to hire a locksmith. And that’s not the worst thing I’ve done. Hell, I flirted with Klaasje back in Martinaise. I flirted with a _suspect_. I probably would have slept with her, too, if she said yes.”

“I know, Harry. You already told me about that.” Kim wasn’t thrilled upon hearing this initially, but to Harry’s (very, very slight) credit, he hadn’t even known he was a cop at the time.

“But the worst thing… The _actual_ worst thing… I—I don’t remember doing this, but I have notes in my ledger from old cases, you know?” Harry’s voice cracks. Kim senses that whatever Harry is about to say is at the root of his shock.

“Yes?” Kim prompts, although he is not sure he wants to hear it.

“Jean said we used to get calls all the time about these two men. They would get shitfaced and go break things or flash people on street corners, that kind of shit. I guess we got another call about them one day and we went over there, Trant and Jean and I. I was wasted, big surprise, and so were both of the men. One of them, he messed with my ledger, tried to smash it. Anyway, the details don’t matter.” Harry sucks in a breath. “I… I beat him up. I hurt him so bad he couldn’t walk anymore. I asked Jean about it tonight because I couldn’t believe it when I read my notes, but it happened. Jean didn’t seem too bothered by it, but fuck, Kim. I just… fuck.”

It takes all of Kim’s willpower to continue driving in a straight line. Kim is no stranger to violence, doesn’t find it inherently shocking, but Harry has a relatively low kill count and Kim has never seen him harm anything more sentient than a mailbox. Kim can’t reconcile the brutality of the actions with the Harry he knows. He fights to betray no emotions, but inside he feels horrifically unmoored.

“I didn’t mention it before because I wasn’t sure it was true,” Harry rasps. “And I didn’t want to see the look on your face. I guess that’s why I’m telling you now, in the dark.” Harry laughs bleakly. “And tonight, Jean apologized to me. After all that. I’m not only a former but a current shithead, and _he_ apologized to _me_.”

“Harry… I don’t know what to say,” Kim admits, glancing over at Harry’s silhouetted form.

“I wish I could have told you sooner. You would have known not to get involved with me.” Harry sighs. “I know it doesn’t mean much, Kim, but I’m sorry. I’m resigning tomorrow. You and Jean can be partners.”

“Resigning?” Kim echoes.

“I can’t keep working there. I always thought that deep down, I was an amazing cop. That if I dealt with my bullshit, I’d be that amazing cop again. But that's a lie. I’ve always been a piece of shit cop, all the way down. That’s never going to change unless I’m not a cop. Do you get what I’m saying?” Harry taps his fingers on the window glass. “I also understand if you don’t want to be with me anymore. I’m not even sure I want to be with me.” His voice breaks on the last word.

Kim didn’t think he could feel any more unsettled, but Harry’s last sentence catapults him into new realms of terror. “Harry, are you thinking about hurting yourself?”

Harry exhales loudly, the sound of a tire deflating.

“Be honest with me." Kim keeps his voice calm. “Please.”

“No, I’m not,” Harry says. “I had it all wrong before. I think I need to put something good into the world instead of taking out something bad. Does that make sense?”

“It makes perfect sense.” Kim’s relief is so profound he feels as if he might cry. “I'm happy to hear that.”

They arrive at the house. Kim parks the Kineema on the side of the road and they sit in silence that is broken only by a dog's faint bark and the wind blowing through the trees.

“Harry,” Kim says at last. “Do you remember what I said last night?”

“Which part?”

“About your past.” Kim reaches over to place his hand atop Harry’s, feeling the maze of scars underneath his palm. “What you did to that man was horrible. There’s no way around that."

Harry starts to interrupt, but Kim shushes him. "What I'm saying, Harry, is that what you did in the past _matters_ , but it doesn't define you. I might not have known you back then, but I know you now. And I love you for who you are _now_.”

“You do?” Harry asks hoarsely.

“I do. Come on, let’s go inside. It’s too cold to sit in the Kineema all night.”

The brightness of the hallway lights makes everything feel surreal. Kim can finally see Harry, and he looks absolutely wrecked, face red and eyes sad. This was the man Kim met in Martinaise. Kim is not sure how he feels about his return.

“Will you help me tell Jean tomorrow?” Harry asks as they walk upstairs. He grips the railing as if to stop himself from falling through the stairs like some kind of ghost.

“If you’re sure that’s what you want to do, then yes. Of course I will.”

“Kim?” Harry stops at the door to his apartment. “This might be asking a lot, but could you stay with me tonight?” He grimaces. “If you’re sure you still… like me, that is.”

Kim nods and follows Harry inside. The apartment is dim and warm. The _L’Attaque_ board is still set up on the kitchen table as they left it last night. Harry flips on the lights and unlaces his shoes, then trudges down the hallway without a word.

In the bedroom, they undress quietly. Kim folds his clothes and sets them on the dresser. Harry leaves his sprawled across the floor.

They slide into bed, both lying on their backs between the cool sheets. For a while, they keep their distance.

Kim can tell by Harry’s breathing that he’s still awake. Kim turns to his side and extends an an arm toward Harry. “Is this okay?”

Harry nods and rolls over so Kim is curled around him. The heavy weight of Harry’s body and the synchronization of their heartbeats lulls Kim into a half sleep.

“I forgot,” Harry says suddenly.

Kim jerks awake. “Forgot what?” His first thought is that they forgot to have their nightly cigarette, or to brush their teeth, but neither of those match Harry’s tone.

“To tell you that I love you, too. So here it is. I love you, Kim.” Harry exhales through his nose. “But I still don’t think I deserve you.”

Something flutters in Kim’s chest. “Then I guess I’ll have to work on convincing you that you do.” He closes his eyes. “Goodnight, Harry.”

“Night, Kim.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter, especially the latter half, was a huge struggle for me to write. I hope it turned out okay. Thanks to the folx over on the DE writing Discord for their help with brainstorming.


	8. Chapter 8

In the summer, you paint the sun. Florid sunrises over the coast of Martinaise, blazing suns in the sky above Parc Central, the tendrils of a sunbeam through your bedroom window. You go through tubes and tubes of yellow, pink, and orange. You spend your days translating light into paint.

In the autumn, once you start teaching gym classes at the nearby middle school, you begin painting in the evenings. Now you paint sunsets, twilights, the silhouettes of branches against a darkening sky. You light your nightly cigarette with hands stained with purple and brown.

In the winter, you find beauty in the dark and cold you used to fear. You paint the night, clouds and stars and the twinkling skyline of the city. Tubes of blue, white, and black crowd the shelves around your easel.

Your current painting is of the winter sky as you see it outside your living room window. The light of the slivered moon will eventually shine softly off the surface of the Kineema, parked by the side of the road. You’re working on the white stripe of the Kineema at the moment.

You don’t notice that Kim is home from work until his arms drape over your shoulders. You jump. Paint flies off the end of your brush, splattering the canvas.

“Harry, I am so sorry,” Kim says. He pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and approaches the painting, then hesitates. “I actually don’t know if I should touch this. I might make things worse.”

“Leave it,” you say. “It looks kind of nice.”

It’s true. The tiny drops of white resemble stars, or snowflakes, or fireflies dancing across the dark sky.

Kim tucks the handkerchief away and smiles slyly. “In that case, I hope you give me artist credit.”

“Sure, that’s disco. I’ve always dreamed of a Du Bois and Kitsuragi collaboration.”

You stand up from the kitchen chair you’ve dragged into the living room and wrap Kim in a tight hug. He closes his eyes and relaxes into your arms.

“You smell like acetone,” he says, muffled by your shoulder.

You bury your nose in Kim’s neck and inhale.

_A memory calls out to you. You are very young, and you hold a woman’s hand as she leads you into a fenced off patch of grass surrounded by bales of straw. Goats and sheep amble past you. The woman encourages you to pet a goat, but you don’t like the look of the creature. You start to cry._

“You smell like… a barn?”

“Sorry.” Kim sniffs the collar of his jacket and cringes. “Jean and I paid a visit to a very nice man who was raising livestock in his living room.”

“Was he actually very nice?”

Kim laughs, the sound reverberating into your chest. “No. We’re pretty sure he killed five people.” Kim breaks away from the hug and stretches his arms out in front of him. “I’ll spare you from having to smell me anymore. I’m going upstairs to shower.”

“I don’t mind what you smell like.” You lean over and kiss the top of Kim’s head. “Come back down for dinner?”

“I wouldn’t miss it.”

Your focus returns to painting the Kineema. You become so absorbed in the task that you don’t realize an hour has passed until you hear Kim’s footsteps descending the stairs.

_Why do you feel like you forgot to do something?_

_Dinner! You forgot to make dinner. Hurry, get cooking before Kim gets here._

Kim opens the door to your apartment before you can even step foot into the kitchen.

“Whoops,” you say, dunking your brush into a cup of water. “I got a little sidetracked.”

One side of Kim’s lips quirks up. “Let’s go get dinner, then. I don’t feel much like cooking, either.” He crosses the living room to stand next to you. “I have tomorrow off, by the way, if you want to do something.”

“I have therapy in the morning, but I’m free after that. Karaoke?” You wink.

Kim’s eyes narrow, but the twitch in his mouth indicates he’s trying to hold back laughter. “Harry, the day you convince me to sing in public is the day the Pale will swallow this world and everything in it.”

While you trek to the kitchen to wash your hands, Kim examines your painting.

“Nice work on the Kineema so far,” he calls to you. “It’s beautiful. Not everyone sees it like I do.” He laughs softly. “Maybe you were right all along.”

“Right about what?” You return to his side, drying your hands on a dish towel.

“Your graffito in Martinaise. ‘Something beautiful is going to happen.’” He gestures toward the painting. “Do you think this might be it?”

You toss the dish towel on the table to land among stacks of paint tubes and palettes.

“Maybe,” you say thoughtfully. “But I actually think there might be a _lot_ of beautiful somethings.”

_Like eating breakfast with Kim in the morning. Exchanging ace's high with the awkward preteens at the middle school after they’ve successfully run a mile. Getting coffee with Jean and realizing that you make much better friends than coworkers. Gifting your best paintings to Basha, Judit, and Gabriela. Talking walks in the city that has become your home. Playing board games. Reading books. Living._

Kim hums in agreement. “I think so, too.”

He smiles at you and takes your hand in his, leading you out of the apartment to get dinner. In perfect unison, all of the voices in your head tell you that you’re in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! :)


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